


The Theory of Harmony

by robotboy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant up to Chapter 16, Deaf Character, Deaf Din Djarin, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Grief/Mourning, Internalised Audism, M/M, Sign Language, Spoilers for Chapter 16, ambivalent portrayal of the armorer, deaf fic from a deaf author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Din Djarin goes back to Mos Pelgo to lay low. Cobb Vanth asks Din to teach him Tusken sign language, and Din has to decide which of his secrets are worth keeping. Since swearing the Creed, Din has never told anyone he’s deaf.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 406
Kudos: 597





	1. Of all the spotchka joints in all the worlds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GuenVanHelsing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/gifts).
  * Inspired by [for a moment there, i thought we were in trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815836) by [ghost_teeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_teeth/pseuds/ghost_teeth). 



> Warnings for alcohol abuse in the first chapter, internalised/Tribe audism in later chapters. TSL is all in Auslan because I only know Auslan.
> 
> art by [blxcksqvadron:](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blxcksqvadron/pseuds/blxcksqvadron/works)  
> 

He never expected it to be so damn _blue_.

Din set the helmet on the table with trembling hands. The booth was sheltered from the larger cantina, but it was still open. Still public. The Weequay at the bar could likely see a tuft of brown hair, maybe a mess of stubble over a clenched jaw. Din placed his hands on the table until he could pour the bottle of spotchka into his mug without spilling it everywhere.

He could be breathing like a mudhorn, for all he knew. It felt like it.

The spotchka was luminous. Din peered at it, evaluating how likely it was the Weequay was playing an elaborate prank on him. The smell pulled on his tear ducts. A darted glance toward another table confirmed that lurid blue was simply the colour of spotchka, and the visor in his helmet had been protecting him from its eye-searing properties. Maybe if he drank enough, he’d start appreciating its other properties and stop worrying so much. About everything.

About sitting in a bar in the ass-end of Tatooine, no kid, no helmet, no way to get out of being the rightful ruler of Mandalore.

He threw back the first mug so fast it burned his throat, and clamped himself around the threatening cough until his entire upper body ached. He couldn’t blame it. Another cup, slower, so the briny flavour rolled around his tongue. There was a certain appeal to drinking faster and getting the helmet back on, but he swished the drink in his mouth, decided it wasn’t worth swishing, and wrinkled his nose as he swallowed. He took a shuddering breath, and let the susurrus of the cantina wash past him like a weak tide.

Toward the end of the second cup, his movements started getting looser. Halfway through the third, he stopped twitching at the faint snatches of conversation somewhere behind him.

By the fifth, he was listing more than slightly against the wall, and no less miserable than when he started.

A shock of red interrupted the blue. Din squinted: how did people do this all the time?

The red was making a sound. Din blinked at the face of Cobb Vanth, and it blinked back at him.

Vanth asked him another question—it had to be another, because the expectation quirked his eyebrows, his gaze sliding over to the helmet and not quite returning to Din.

Din sighed, nostrils flaring. He held up a finger, kept it upright and reasonably steady as he knocked back the spotchka, and avoided Vanth’s gaze as he put the helmet back on.

[Sorry,] Vanth was saying. [Should’ve given you a minute.]

‘Start again,’ Din said, and at Vanth’s blank expression: ‘What you were saying.’

[I didn’t think it was you,] Vanth had a quizzical smile. [Being as you had the helmet off.]

Din let this sink through the bluish haze of spotchka before replying. ‘Is this a cantina for impostors in Mandalorian armour?’

Vanth snorted like it was funny. He looked Din up and down. Slow. [It _is_ you, isn’t it?]

Din waved his hand in what he hoped meant _isn’t it obvious,_ and not _is it obvious I’m drunker than I’ve ever been in my life?_

There was a mole on Vanth’s cheekbone. Din’s gaze hooked on it like it could pin him upright. He stayed upright.

[Where’s the kid?] Vanth asked.

‘He’s…’ Din swallowed. ‘He’s gone.’

Vanth’s eyes widened. Through the visor, they looked a light brown. Though apparently for all the hell Din knew, they could be purple.

[He died?]

‘No,’ Din shook his head quick enough to give himself a headache. ‘No, he’s just. He’s with someone else.’

Vanth nodded, drawing in a heavy breath. [That explains the spotchka.]

‘It does?’ Din’s tongue was thicker than his skull. Brinier, too.

[Sure,] Vanth shrugged. [You clearly loved the little guy.]

‘Oh,’ Din’s shoulders drew tight. Unfortunately, Vanth continued to be right in front of him. ‘Huh.’

[So,] Vanth rescued him from the topic. [What brings you back to Mos Pelgo?]

Din opened his mouth to say it was about the last place in the galaxy anyone would look for the darksaber, and it was the only place Fett would agree to drop him off.

‘The spotchka,’ he said.

Vanth’s shoulders shook, but the helmet’s transcript didn’t register the sound of a laugh.

[Never thought I’d see you again,] Vanth smiled, unhappily.

Din frowned. ‘I thought you said you would.’

[Said I _hoped_ I would,] Vanth raised an eyebrow.

Din realised he should offer Vanth a drink. He got as far as raising the bottle, then realised Vanth didn’t have a mug, and compromised by wiggling the bottle in his direction. Vanth took it willingly. His lips met the bottle and his throat bobbed around a swig. His tongue darted out to catch a droplet Din now knew was bright, bright blue.

 _Dank farrik,_ Din was drunk.

Vanth set the bottle back on the table, and Din poured himself another finger. His left hand caught the rim of the helmet, right bringing the cup to his lips. The tip and sip. He’d got good at it, since—since— _shit._

Vanth was staring, and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

[The helmet thing,] he gestured. [Is this new, or do you get an exemption for grieving, or—?]

‘It’s new.’

Vanth’s mouth hinted at bunny-teeth and a follow-up question. Instead, he took the bottle and finished it off.

[You need a place to stay?] his look pierced through the visor. Like he’d memorised every detail of Din’s face in the moment he’d sat down.

‘Barkeep says there’s a room upstairs,’ Din muttered. His gloves grumbled around the fist he was making.

Vanth nodded sagely. It was ominous.

[Well,] he rapped on the table and the transcript flashed _[knock, knock.]_ [When you’re back in your own head, come find me. I got a proposition for you.]

Then his long legs were sliding out of the booth, fingers trailing across the table, and Vanth was gone.

Din watched the transcript flicker through _[footsteps,]_ until the aurebesh was as blurry as everything else.


	2. I like my men how I like my caf

He’d never had a hangover under two suns. The pair of them blazed through the skylight with smug vindication. He rolled over, and the bedsprings groaned louder than he did.

At some point in the night he’d put the helmet back on, so at least he could dial the brightness down and tongue the fuzz off his teeth in relative peace. Ten minutes later, he hauled himself upright with the idea of fixing the kid breakfast. Then memory gripped him by the chest and forced him back onto the lumpy mattress. No.

The fresher had a sonic, at least. Din suspected if he could organically hear the emitter banging, it was probably public knowledge he was showering. The vibrations hammered away the grime, and the aches in his joints became a dull reminder rather than a constant distraction.

The helmet was propped beside the mirror. He left it there.

His beard was growing back. He rubbed a hand over it, finding the grain, frowning at the brittle texture of the greys. It was patchy, but not itchy. His nostrils flared around an exhale, and he drew himself away from the reflection to find the smallest vibroblade in his kit.

If he didn’t think too hard, it was the same kind of precision work as any job: slicing close without breaking the skin, even strokes, easy to forget it was his own face. He’d spent most of his life somewhere between clean-shaven and scraggly: it was only his last shave, exempting a fit of pique in his teens, that he’d attempted any shape in between.

It had looked—good? Different, at least? It had looked enough whatever-it-looked to draw his eye in the mirror, to make him reconsider the fullness of his mouth and the arch of his nose. It had felt enough unlike the face he was used to seeing that he’d managed to survive those Imps looking at it, without throwing up until he was back in Slave One.

He managed to keep staring in the mirror without the squirming discomfort in his stomach. That was new. That was worth trying again.

Vanth wore a beard, blocky around his mouth and fainter at the jaw. At a glance, it appeared to be a goatee left to seed. But Din had done more than glance: it was a carefully-maintained show of unaffected roguishness.

Din may have had it in mind, last time he’d taken the vibroblade to his face. If he found himself wishing he’d thought to trim it again before taking his helmet off last night, well, that was another secret he could keep.

[Vanth’s house is on the north juncture,] the Weequay said when Din came downstairs. Din gave him a nod of acknowledgment, choosing to believe that Vanth had mentioned to the Weequay that he’d need directions. Or bounty hunters only had business with marshals. Anything beside the fact that Din had wanted to ask since the moment Fett dropped him outside town.

Mos Pelgo wasn’t a large settlement. Din’s helmet picked up on the shriek of wind that funnelled through its main street, tugging his cape around his legs. Vanth’s abode wasn’t a house, exactly, but a north-facing attachment slapped onto a larger home. The modesty of it probably endeared him to the townspeople, if he needed endearment when he possessed the charm of a third sun—more charm, considering how harshly the other two were beating down on Din’s back. And Din knew what he’d rather wake up to.

He rapped his knuckles on the door, and got a [ _muffled shout_ ] for his trouble. The door hissed open, and Vanth’s silhouette hung in the doorframe. He seemed to hang off everything. Something about his posture called to mind a cable that had lost its stretch over the years.

[Don’t let the heat in,] he beckoned. Din stepped in, and the door whisked shut behind him.

‘What do you need?’ he asked.

Vanth gave him a little frown. [Slow down, big shot. Let’s start with _want_ before we get into what we _need.]_

Din frowned. It wasn’t just the absence of the amban rifle throwing him off-balance. Vanth was running—well, walking—circles around him. The room had a bachelor’s sparseness, familiar to Din, a kitchen at one end and a table at the other.

[A bottle of spotchka and a night in the cantina’s bed can’t have been kind to you,] Vanth guessed. [Let me fix you a caf?]

Vanth moved to the stove, taking a long-handled copper pot off the heat. Din paused, then nodded. Vanth spooned foam into two small cups, then filled them with caf. The scent was bold enough to sneak under the helmet, rich and toasty. Din was familiar with this particular Tatooine ritual, though he’d never partaken. His heart pumped as if the caf were already in his veins.

Vanth passed him the cup: it was so hot that Din was glad for the gloves, and newly appreciative of the calluses Vanth must have on his fingertips. Din reached with a free hand to unlock the helmet’s clasp, doing his best to conceal the instinctive flinch as it clicked. Vanth was a paragon of amiable disinterest. As smooth as if he’d given it no thought, he moved back to the stove. The distinct motions of puttering gave him away: he was letting Din drink in peace.

The first sip almost burned his tongue. Vanth had brewed it sweet, so the saccharine bite chased the curdling vestiges of spotchka from Din’s mouth. For the benefit of a hungover first-time drinker of Tatooine caf, or because he liked the taste?

Din sighed, moving to the table and taking a seat. He put the cup down with what he guessed to be enough noise to signal that Vanth could do the same. Vanth took the seat opposite, crossing one leg over his lap. He partook of his caf delicately, avoiding the risk of foam on his moustache.

Din nudged the helmet up to take another drink, and hoped his cheeks weren’t half as red as they were burning. Only a twitch of Vanth’s eyebrows belied his surprise.

‘What’s the proposition?’ Din asked.

[Well, with the dragon out of the way, there’s some overlap between our moisture farmers’ transport routes and the Tuskens’ grazing territory.]

‘I’m not fighting the Tuskens,’ Din spoke flatly.

[I’m not asking you to,] Vanth said. [We need to negotiate. I need to know _how_ to negotiate.]

Din put down the caf, and locked the helmet back in place.

[I want you to teach me those…] Vanth gesticulated. [Their sign language.]

Din chewed the inside of his lip.

[Can’t pay you much,] Vanth said. [But assuming you’re here to lay low, we’ll have you as long as you need.]

‘Thank you,’ Din murmured. As an afterthought, he brought the palm of his hand to his chin, tipping it outward. ‘There’s your first word.’

Vanth mimicked it, though his movement made it look more like _hot_ than _thank you._ Din repeated the word again, until Vanth was comprehensible.

[Thank you?]

Din made a fist, moving it like a nodding head. ‘Yes.’

[Am I supposed to scream as well?]

Din exhaled, tilting his head. ‘Vocalising indicates tone. It’s not needed for basics. You’ve got a face.’

Vanth’s lips parted as he made sense of Din’s words. [I’ve got a face.]

‘Tuskens probably can’t read it easy,’ Din shrugged. ‘But other humans, sure.’

Vanth narrowed his eyes. [How likely are other humans to know Tusken signs?]

Din blinked. ‘It’s not just Tusken. They created it, but there’s variations all round the Outer Rim.’

 _[Oh,]_ Vanth’s eyes _were_ hazel, now they were wide enough that Din could see the colour through the visor. [I wondered why you knew it.]

Din shrugged, and let Vanth fill in the blanks.

[How do I say _water?]_ Vanth asked.

‘You want to do this now?’ Din cocked his head.

[Why? You busy?] Vanth grinned.

Din almost signed the word for _funny,_ since it looked enough like _water._ Vanth’s imitation got the placement wrong, since he was working off a jaw instead of a visor.

‘Water’s like this,’ he reached out to correct the hook of Vanth’s finger. Vanth held his face still and Din steered the finger to slide along his cheek. Through that silver stubble he’d been thinking about all morning.

[Water,] Vanth repeated the word. [Yes; thank you.]

‘Try them without speaking,’ Din suggested, and took the opportunity to finish his caf while Vanth practiced.

[How do I say ‘no’?] Vanth asked.

Din made the shape with his hand, and Vanth squinted at it. Din sighed, and took his glove off. Unobstructed, the circle of forefinger and thumb was clear: Vanth mirrored it.

‘Right hand,’ Din told him. Vanth switched. ‘Unless you’re left-handed.’

[That makes a difference?] Vanth’s brow wrinkled.

Din paused. ‘Might not to Tuskens. Some places, they sign with the dominant hand.’

Vanth made a decent attempt at hiding his curiosity about _some places_ in his cup, but it was too small.

‘These ones are easy: you, me,’ Din pointed respectively. He made a thumbs-up. ‘Good.’

[Tuskens invented that?] Vanth grinned.

Din shrugged. ‘They understand it, if not.’

[Bad?] Vanth held his thumb down in a guess.

Din made the sign for _no,_ and Vanth took a moment to process it. Din held out a pinky, and Vanth did the same.

The digit didn’t point straight on Vanth’s hand: the last joint had been broken at some point. A story there, maybe, or maybe not. He could trade it, one day, for a tale about _some places._

[Uh…] Vanth bit his lip. [What’s _want?]_

Din held his palm to his chest, sweeping it down and away. Vanth’s version of it was more elaborate, but he had the gist.

 _You want water?_ he asked.

 _No, thank you,_ Din replied.

Vanth grinned at his first exchange.

‘Numbers,’ Din said. Vanth followed easily from one through five: six to nine needed practice.

‘Tuskens use _this_ for eleven,’ Din signed a bird-beak. ‘Other planets, it’s different.’

[What is it on other planets?]

‘Stick with what you’re gonna use. This is twelve.’

Din counted him up to 22, where Vanth grasped the system to follow through to 99. Din drilled him back and forth, asking for numbers until Vanth could sign them quickly, calling numbers out so Vanth could reply in Basic.

[I keep tripping up on the eights and nines,] Vanth grumbled.

 _It’s your first day,_ Din reminded him. Vanth’s eyes darted over his hands, and Din realised his mistake. ‘Your first day.’

Vanth tried to copy him, and Din pressed on his wrist.

‘No new words yet,’ Din said. ‘The old ones will fall out.’

Vanth huffed a laugh, turning his hand over. Din’s touch met his pulse where it thrummed between sharp tendons.

He should pull away—no, draw back slowly, as if he’d touched someone’s skin with bare fingertips in recent years. Play it off as a simple gesture, as instinctive as it began. Not a flood stealing the breath from his lips.

Vanth was the one to move, swallowing visibly before collecting their cups. Din shifted when his readout displayed [whirring], turning to watch Vanth using the sonic emitter to clean the dishes.

Din pulled his glove back on. The leather cradled his knuckles.


	3. Any apex predator will do

_Talk. Safe. Danger. Go. Stop. Give. Take. Now. Later. Transport. Bantha. People. What. Why._

That gave Vanth enough to form sentences. He did, prolifically, deliberate gestures in stilted grammar. It was clear enough for Tuskens to follow, but simple enough for Vanth to memorise. Three mornings of practicing conversation, followed by sprawling afternoons. Din took the time to do proper maintenance of every piece remaining in his kit, while Vanth settled the petty disputes of the town. Din’s beskar gleamed and his jersey stank less than it had in years. Two mining families brokered a proposal that somehow involved a widowed daughter taking up residence with her late husband’s sister—Din couldn’t quite follow as Vanth explained it in the cantina on the fourth night, but the widow and the sister were reported to be unusually enthusiastic about the arrangement.

[Son of a bantha,] Vanth ran his hands through his hair. It stuck out at more absurd angles than usual. [Don’t get married.]

‘You speaking from experience?’

Vanth’s nose crinkled into a laugh. [Experience enough never to try it myself.]

Din nodded, while Vanth chased the last of his food around his plate. Din took his own meals upstairs: drinking, he could about manage, but food was soured by anxiety when anyone else was in the room. Vanth ate at the cantina more nights than not: Din joined him for company, if not dinner.

That was new, wanting company. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

[Do Mandalorians marry?] Vanth asked.

Din sighed. The bridge of his nose ached, and he longed to pinch it. ‘My tribe did. Couldn’t say how it was with others.’

He’d barely had reason to parse it aloud. _My tribe,_ not _Mandalorians;_ _did,_ not _do._ The words tasted like ash.

[What’s it like?] Vanth asked.

‘Never had one,’ Din shrugged.

[You must have seen one,] Vanth rolled his eyes. It pulled the scar on his temple.

‘Yes,’ Din delivered it in a deadpan. ‘The proposer presents the head of a dianoga to prove their worth. There’s a bare-handed battle to see who joins which clan. Everyone lights their flamethrowers so long that their passion may burn.’

Vanth’s mouth was hanging open. [Did you just fuck with me?]

Din held still. The helmet made for a very effective sabacc face. ‘Did you buy it?’

Vanth never laughed so loud that Din’s receiver could pick it up. His shoulders shook, and his lips clamped down until he could speak.

[What if there’s no dianogas around?]

‘Any apex predator will do,’ Din nodded solemnly. ‘So long as it weighs more than the proposer.’

[Wish I’d known that when we took down a Krayt dragon,] Vanth mused.

Din let out a soft snort to cover his surprise. He’d walked right into it, trying to be sarcastic. He knew Vanth flirted: now Din had been here a few days, he could see how well it worked on everyone. And Vanth _did_ flirt with everyone.

‘What happened to its head?’ Din asked. Making conversation.

[Tuskens claimed it,] Vanth said. [Maybe one of them’s getting hitched.]

‘We show our faces,’ Din said. The words were out of him before he could haul them to safety. ‘After we get married.’

Vanth frowned, adjusting his posture to take the weight of this confession.

[I’m gonna assume you didn’t marry the whole of this cantina, that first night.]

Din shook his head.

[So it was something else,] Vanth stroked his beard.

‘I needed to save him,’ Din shut his eyes, for a moment. ‘It was the only way.’

He’d repeated the words, in that order, so many times that his fist closed around his finger without conscious thought. The sign of _only._

[And now, what?] Vanth shrugged one shoulder. [Doesn’t matter so much anymore?]

Din wanted to say _yes._

‘I still need it,’ he folded his arms to stop from fidgeting. ‘Even if I’d married, _I’d_ be wearing it.’

A wrinkle in Vanth’s forehead. He’d picked up on the subjectivity. [For peace of mind?]

‘No, there’s a…’ Din clenched his jaw. ‘It runs a transcript in my HUD.’

Vanth mouthed _transcript?_

‘Speech to text,’ Din continued. It was easier to talk about it as a software. ‘Ambient sound, some translation.’

Vanth’s lips parted, tongue soft as he figured it out. _[That’s_ why you know how to…]

He waggled his fingers.

‘I spent time with Tuskens,’ Din folded himself smaller. That partial-truth was getting stale.

[So when you were saying—your betrothed wouldn’t sign with you?] Vanth frowned.

Din blinked. ‘Most Mandalorians don’t know how.’

[I’d learn, if I wanted to romance someone,] Vanth shrugged. [Seems more useful than killing a dianoga.]

Din chuckled, and Vanth grinned like he’d won something. The moment loosened Din enough that he could roll his neck, getting a crack that had been lurking in his spine all day. Vanth winced.

[Don’t tell me you’re still sleeping upstairs,] he shook his head. [That bed’s got the cruelest patch of sun on the planet. The springs are from the Old Republic.]

‘I can sleep anywhere,’ Din told him, and when Vanth opened his mouth, amended: ‘As long as I get some _sleep.’_

Vanth pursed his lips, knowing damn well Din had inferred—and deferred—the offer. He chuffed, peering at something past Din’s elbow. [Well. Sweet dreams, Mando.]

He was halfway out of the booth when Din snagged his hip.

‘Din.’

[What?] Vanth wheeled around to face him, leaking curiosity.

‘My name,’ Din cleared his throat. ‘Din Djarin.’

It was a foolish thing to cling to, anyway.

[In that case,] Vanth’s sinuous posture twisted itself so Din didn’t have to tilt the visor to meet his eye. [None of this _Vanth_ shit. It’s Cobb.]

‘Cobb,’ Din nodded, testing out the flavour of it. ‘Alright. Meet you at first light?’

[I know you won’t miss it.]

Cobb, the bastard, winked.


	4. This one's a cover

The dewbacks were bow-legged and cantankerous. Din took a moment to adjust in the saddle. They were a smoother ride than a blurrg, but wider to straddle. Cobb sat on his with a practiced ease, hips swivelling intuitively to keep his upper body from being jostled. He wore a broad-brimmed hat in a style once fashionable with coreworld bounty hunters, and battered sand goggles slung around his neck.

[Hard to look at you, gleaming like that,] Cobb pulled the goggles over his eyes. His dewback trundled over to Din’s, nuzzling her until she stopped squalling about the stranger on her back.

Din pulled his cape up, draping it across his cuirass to tuck over the opposite pauldron. That covered half the beskar, and let some air circulate around his midline. The suns gave more light than heat, first thing in the morning, so he could afford to wrap up for Cobb’s comfort.

Cobb clicked his tongue, a sound so sharp Din caught it aurally alongside the transcript. The dewback grizzled, rumbling between Din’s thighs, and set off in a steady plod westward. Their shadows stretched ahead, two knobbly fingers pointing the way. The first hour of the journey, Cobb rode in amiable silence. Din focused on finding the right rhythm in the saddle, anticipating the dips and rolls of the dewback’s stride to curtail aches that wouldn’t make themselves known for a few days. After Mos Pelgo vanished behind them, the terrain got rocky. The dewbacks pulled into single file, picking their way through boulders that would have obliterated a speeder.

_[Humming.]_

Din blinked, reaching for his wrist to fiddle with the pickups. Sure enough, under _[clattering]_ from the rocks and _[grumbling]_ from the dewbacks, Cobb was singing snatches of a song.

[(Huttese-melodic) Those long, long days, with no escaping…]

There was an amplifier in the helmet. He toggled it higher, until the ambient noises made him wince. There, at the edge of his hearing, were snatches of music. The processed sound crunched through the range of pitches Cobb was humming, but Din could follow the mournful tune as it climbed and dropped like the dewbacks navigating the canyon. The translation was so garbled, Din guessed Cobb had learned the song phonetically. He had a better grasp of the tune than the lyrics.

Cobb’s dewback dislodged a rock, sending it clattering down the slope. Din’s mount dodged it with a cursory snarl, and Cobb twisted in the saddle to check they were safe.

[All good back there?] he asked, and Din suppressed flinch at the blast of his voice. He quickly dialled the volume back to standard, and patted his dewback on the shoulder for her dexterity. He flashed a thumbs-up at Cobb, who grinned and signed _safe?_

_Yes._

Cobb squared his shoulders and urged his mount forward. He didn’t hum anything more, but Din kept reading the dewbacks grumbling, the wind in the canyon, and the rustling of little creatures in the transcript.

The first sign they were approaching the Tusken camp was the dewback’s shoulders stiffening. Din’s pickups were still tuned high, and sure enough the _[yips]_ of massiffs flashed in a northerly direction, downwind.

[Easy, girl,] Cobb patted his dewback.

Din dismounted, taking a moment to plant his feet in the sand and adjust to the aching new space between his thighs. He dropped into a crouch and let out a hollering call. Cobb startled, and the massiffs came running.

‘Get down,’ Din suggested. Cobb ducked. _‘Off_ the dewback.’

Cobb scrambled to kneel on the sand. The pack swarmed around them, prancing just out of reach. A few of the juveniles came around to flank them, making the dewbacks close ranks and hiss.

‘Hold there,’ Din said, as one of the pups snuck up behind Cobb. ‘Let them smell you.’

Hot breath dampened his shoulder and the helmet picked up _[huffing]._ Cobb’s eyes roved in their sockets, trying to peek at the pair of massiffs investigating him. Din removed his glove, offering his hand for a slimy greeting.

A Tusken scout’s head popped up over the ridge. Din stood and waved, relaying the offer to negotiate. The head disappeared, and the massiffs barrelled off around the corner.

Cobb tethered the dewbacks where they could pick at the tussocks of grass, and they followed the pawprints toward the camp. Din thought he recognised a few of the Tuskens—they certainly knew him and Cobb. Cobb signed a hesitant _hello,_ and surprise rippled through the tribe. An elder stepped forward, inviting them to sit. Din was positioned in the middle this time.

 _We come to talk about passage,_ Din said.

Cobb’s gaze was sharp and inquisitive, moving so quick across Din’s hands that it left an itch.

 _You’ll translate?_ the elder asked.

 _If needed,_ Din said. _I’m teaching him. You can talk together._

They both turned to Cobb. He flushed.

 _Hello,_ the gesture was smaller, less confident than when Din taught it to him.

 _Hello,_ the elder replied slowly.

 _My people go…_ Cobb pointed back toward the canyon. _For water. Your people go for banthas._

Cobb looked at Din, openly worried that his grammar had led him to convey a grave insult. Din kept his head angled toward the Tuskens, steering Cobb to focus.

The elder replied, and Cobb’s lips moved in the shape of the words he caught. _Water…?_

 _You… take… water,_ the elder said. They beckoned another Tusken over, who quickly drafted a map in the sand. A grid of stones for Mos Pelgo; a long groove for the canyon; dried seeds for the Tusken camp. Cobb craned his neck to look at it.

 _You take banthas,_ he pointed to the grazing zones.

 _Yes,_ the elder confirmed. Cobb grinned at having understood.

 _We take water…_ Cobb drew a new route in the sand with his finger. _Good?_

 _No,_ the elder tutted. _The noise of your transports startles the calves._

Vanth wrinkled his nose. To Din, he said [I got _transports?]_

Din translated into Basic. Cobb opened his mouth to reply, then remembered himself.

 _What is good for you?_ he asked.

 _Travel by night,_ the elder suggested, pointing out a route.

‘Night,’ Din explained the word. Cobb copied it.

 _My people take water this way, by night?_ Cobb asked.

 _Yes,_ said the elder.

 _Danger,_ Cobb pursed his lips.

The elder nodded pointedly at Cobb’s blaster. Cobb sighed.

 _You want water?_ he asked. _Later?_

Din cocked his head in surprise. Cobb raised his eyebrows in return.

 _We take water on transport…_ Cobb demonstrated one moving around the village. _Give to you?_

He mimed offloading a portion.

 _Three to us,_ he said. _One to you._

This sent a wave of chatter through the Tuskens. Din could barely follow it all: the gist seemed to be whether this was fair to their respective populations; how likely the humans were to honour it; what kind of obligation it could create.

‘Can you afford to barter that much?’ Din murmured.

[We’re losing it to raids,] Cobb shrugged. [Aren’t they more likely to help us protect it if it’s their water too?]

Din gritted his teeth, nodding in concession.

 _Three water for us,_ Cobb repeated the offer. _One water for you. Your people are safe, my people are safe?_

 _Thank you for this offer,_ the elder vocalised caution. _We must discuss it._

Cobb nodded, seeming to follow the context. He sat with his elbows on his knees while the Tuskens debated the matter among themselves.

[You think it’s a bad idea?] he asked Din.

 _No,_ Din signed, so the Tuskens didn’t suspect them of conspiring. _It’s good._

Debate among the tribe went for hours. Din gathered that the bantha herders were quibbling the transport hours, while some of the warriors suspected the humans would leverage the water supply when it suited them. He offered to depart with Cobb and reconvene once a decision was made, but the elder insisted they stay.

[Do they want us to hush?] Cobb frowned, shuffling closer to Din.

 _No…?_ Din tilted his head.

[They keep doing this,] Cobb held a finger to his lips.

Din chuckled. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Cobb broke out a pack of ration bars around noon, offering one to Din and another to a few curious Tusken youths. The youths took the food, sniffed it, and decided it was better used bribing the massiffs to do tricks. Unlike the tribe Din had once traveled with, this group used signs rather than calls for their massiffs. By the time the afternoon drew long and the suns turned pink, Cobb had mastered _sit, come, speak, fetch,_ and _roll over._ Din’s gloves were damp with slobber.

The elder summoned them.

 _Your people will keep your water when a bad season comes,_ the elder framed this as a statement, not a question. _The deal will change when we reach this time._

Cobb recognised it as a warning when Din translated.

 _Yes,_ he replied. _We give…_ [how do I say s _omething different?]_

Din signed it, and Cobb repeated.

 _Or you will take it?_ he guessed.

The elder nodded. Din raised his eyebrows at the use of a human gesture.

 _We want no danger,_ Cobb said. _You want no danger. We’ll talk again. Yes?_

Din held his breath.

 _Yes,_ the elder agreed.

The accord being set, they were escorted to their dewbacks. Din gave the massiff trying to follow them a resounding slap on the ribs, and it waggled its entire body in glee before galloping home to the pack. The dewback squared her shoulders and Din’s thighs were rudely reminded of the morning ride, promising to be sore for days yet.

[Went better than I expected,] Cobb remarked, arching in the saddle to face Din while his dewback set into a brisk walk. She seemed nonplussed by his ability to keep his lower body synchronised with her movement while doing whatever he pleased from the waist upward.

‘You didn’t have to offer them your water,’ Din said. ‘They’d have taken the routes arrangement without it.’

[You told me humans stole their water,] Cobb reminded him. [I’m not a man who leaves a debt unpaid.]

Din considered this as the dewbacks headed toward the canyon. The suns were behind them again, fading fast. Stars began to prickle the sky ahead. The wind had swept away their tracks from that morning, but now it had calmed.

‘How many moons are there?’ Din asked.

 _Three,_ Cobb held up his fingers. [That’s Guermessa. Ghomrassen should rise before we’re home. We won’t see Chenini tonight.]

Din nodded, and settled lower in the saddle. A new set of muscles to punish him, come morning. The dewbacks fidgeted as they approached the lip of the canyon. Cobb’s hand crept toward his blaster, and Din dialed his audio input to maximum.

 _Danger?_ he asked, and Cobb clicked his tongue.

[Could be skettos,] he shrugged. [If we make some noise, they’ll stay clear.]

‘What kind of noise?’

[Talking might do it,] Cobb said. [Got any good stories?]

Din gritted his teeth. ‘How about another song?’

Cobb cocked his head so far he risked sliding out of the saddle. [Didn’t think you caught that. How much _can_ you hear?]

‘Mind your own business,’ Din chuckled. ’How’s it go?’

He hummed such a poor approximation of the tune that Cobb’s cheeks visibly brightened in the moonlight. Cobb shook his head, eyes crinkling into grooves as deep as the canyon. His palms rested on his thighs, slapping out a rhythm. Din caught it, and kept it going on his own hips as Cobb lilted through the melody. The transcript fumbled with his fumbling Huttese, and the audio feed picked out an easy tune that Cobb’s voice rampaged through with more enthusiasm than skill. Din kept the rhythm tight, and Cobb threw him a happy grin, and they cycled through verses and choruses until Cobb was hoarse. The dewbacks pointedly ignored them.

[Here’s a local one,] Cobb announced, when they were deep in the ravine. [My mama taught me this.]

This song didn’t need Din’s accompaniment. The lyrics were in Basic, a slow and aching lament for a lost love. It matched the beat of the dewbacks’ footsteps, so they moved as an eight-legged beast that breathed with Cobb’s words. The last song was the kind to stir up the smoky air of a cantina. This one was made for journeys, a repetitive melody for anyone to pick up and carry wherever they were going, no note too high or low to strain an amateur singer. Its modular verses built texture and details of a doomed romance: Cobb would linger, occasionally, on a rolling tenor as he scavenged for the next snatch of words, gripping it tighter when the rhymes fell into place.

It was a working song, battered into shape by generations of labour, bearing the weight of callused hands and beaten backs and gnarled joints that twanged before a sandstorm.

Cobb’s voice was strong enough to cover the click of the helmet’s clasp. Din rode a few paces with it loose, waiting for the impending urge to secure it in place again. When the impulse never arrived, he slipped it from his head to hold firmly in his lap.

Without the HUD to distinguish the contours, the canyon’s depths became a blanket of warm black. The sky formed a jagged stripe above, indigo where the sun had set, a greenish tint around Guermessa. A spillage of stars in the direction of the Core, growing sparser toward the east: a worn-out cloak with pills in the fabric. Din rubbed his cape between forefinger and thumb. Cobb’s song was a mirage at the horizon of Din’s range: he could pick it out with help from the memory of the amplified version. Unprocessed, the voice had a softer husk to it, suede rather than wool, sand-blasted smooth like the round-edged rocks it was sinking into. Curling and catching in the clever crevices of rocks to chase the blood-suckers off.

Din only knew the theory of harmony; he knew his own voice rumbled like a barge in a storm; he knew this song could be pretty or it could be clear, but not both. All of this would disappear in the morning.

Should he have sung Grogu a lullaby, that he might remember as he drifted asleep in a bed much safer than a handmade hammock strung over a bounty hunter’s bunk? Could Din hold a tune worth remembering? How would he have taught his father’s language to a son with three fingers?

He hadn’t had the time to figure it out.

They drew nearer to the opposite ridge, and Cobb’s tune unraveled beyond Din’s hearing a while before his shoulders rose and fell with breath. Din took a shuddering inhale. The air was cold, the desert greedily turning tear-tracks into itching regret on his cheeks. He swiped his glove over his face, blinking at the stars until they swam together, and managed to meet Cobb’s eye when he turned to check Din’s dewback hadn’t lost her footing.

‘Oh,’ his lips formed the shape of the word. _You don’t…?_

Din shrugged, setting the helmet between his knees. _Not now._

Cobb nodded, slowing his mount until Din caught up. It was easier to be stared at in moonlight, he discovered.

 _What was this?_ Cobb held a finger to his lips.

Din blinked, then remembered. He copied the sign, moving up and down until Cobb was doing it correctly.

‘It’s your name,’ he said.

Cobb’s face scrunched in surprise. He asked something aloud, then corrected himself. _Why?_

‘Red,’ Din smiled. ‘They call you Red.’

Cobb mouthed _red,_ his knuckle tugging on his lower lip. Amusement sent his eyebrows toward his hairline.

 _You?_ he asked.

Din made the T-shape of the visor with a knife-hand.

 _Mando?_ Cobb mouthed. Din nodded.

 _Mando,_ he repeated. _Red._

Cobb glanced down at his neckerchief, as if he’d noticed its colour for the first time. Din used to wear red like that, a long time ago.


	5. The airing of dirty laundry

Cobb’s days following the treaty were crowded up by obstinate moisture farmers who griped about their new routes and the dangers of traveling by night. Din had no patience for this sort of thing: he offered to take on the patrols of the desert that Cobb usually made when the town had no pressing business. The suns were ruthlessly hot, finding every snatch of black fabric between Din’s armour and baking it. Din learned the cycle of sweating himself sodden; drying until his clothes felt like card; and stopping to drink from the substantial flask Cobb correctly insisted he’d need, his helmet off in the shade of a rock.

At least the suns exposed every movement surrounding Mos Pelgo. Carrion creatures were picking the bones of the Krayt dragon. A sandcrawler’s tracks veered in a wide circle around what turned out to be a juvenile sarlacc. A caravan of mercenaries glinted on the horizon near Mos Eisley: over the next few days Din kept an eye out for the subtle grooves in the sand left by speeders, but the group must have had business south of here. The Tuskens never reappeared, which was how he knew they were watching.

The fifth day, he caught himself wondering if he could run protection for the moisture farmers while they settled into the night routes. Even without a ship to maintain, he’d eventually run out of credits—and maybe even goodwill—with the barkeep. A place to sleep, enough to eat, and the supplies to maintain what was left of his gear: he wouldn’t need to charge much. Mos Pelgo was as good a place to hide as any. Fett was around if trouble came knocking. The Jedi probably didn’t even know Tatooine existed, let alone how to find it. Grogu had surely forgotten about him, by now.

He could stay.

[So…] Cobb spoke slowly, as not to run out of evening too soon. [Was it an accident?]

He was steadying the washboard while Din aimed the sonic emitter at the fabric stretched across it. For everyone’s sake, Cobb had loaned Din a spare outfit so he had a chance to get the stench of long speeder rides out of his flightsuit. The shirt groaned around his chest and the pants sat lower than he’d like, but Cobb’s eyes sparkled appreciatively when Din wore it, and his nose probably enjoyed the reprieve as well.

‘Was what an accident?’ Din shut off the sonic while Cobb set the shirt to one side, dusting a pair of his socks with cleaning powder and holding them up for Din to blast.

With the emitter coughing and roaring, Cobb tilted his head to either side, until Din understood he meant ears.

Hadn’t Mayfeld guessed the same thing? Depressurisation— _you just got your bell rung—_ or some other damage that had broken Din. That story made sense, with the number of loud noises a bounty hunter encountered. He wondered if he should concede to it, and let Cobb entertain the illusion that he had once been intact. That there had been some version of Din Djarin who was supposed to be unbroken. Maybe he’d lost his hearing like some people lost their keys. A risk of the job.

_No._

The sign was one-handed, so he didn’t have to pause the sonic. Cobb’s eyes followed the gesture, and curiosity bloomed across his face. His posture was taut with another question, but he chose instead to replace the socks on the washboard with a pair of Din’s. Din blasted them clean.

‘My father was deaf,’ Din said, for the second time in his life.

Cobb’s lips made another _oh._ The shape was uncannily like a kiss.

‘His parents were too. My aunt and uncles, some of the cousins,’ Din said. ‘It wasn’t uncommon, where we lived.’

Cobb must know, Din thought, the kind of favours that surprise did for his eyelashes. Cobb took a moment to remove the socks, and stretched the top half of Din’s flightsuit across the board. Long fingers dug between the creases, spreading them open to find every vestige of dirt and let Din clear it out.

[So Mandalorians use Tusken language?] Cobb frowned as he added it up.

Cobb’s shirt squeezed Din’s chest with the breath he drew. His shoulders slumped at its release. Another part of the story he hadn’t planned to tell.

But why not? Who else would understand?

‘Mandalorians don’t sign,’ Din reminded him. ‘My family weren’t Mandalorians.’

Cobb’s eyebrows were liable to wander off his face. [So you… converted?]

‘I was adopted,’ Din said. ‘During the Clone Wars.’

Cobb sat forward, putting the washboard at a useless angle. He did the arithmetic, working from the age Din had given him when they were learning numbers. _You were, what? Eight?_

 _Seven,_ Din confirmed. ‘They taught me to survive.’

He had no way of knowing if the bitter edge was audible. Long hours of speaking at Grogu and hoping some of it got through; _a cult of zealots_ lingering as if seared into his HUD; the plunging abyss in his gut as the Imperial officer barked indecipherable questions in his face.

Things had started to look different without the helmet on.

She had been kind to him, in her way. Mandalorians didn’t coddle: it was a brutal path, and nobody ever promised him otherwise. He hadn’t sworn the Creed without knowing.

She was patient, shaping him into a hunter, teaching him how to keep up. She’d taken her helmet off, because ensuring the survival of a child was the highest order in the Creed, so she could teach him how to curl his tongue around alveolar sounds, show him the shapes of the consonants he couldn’t hear.No other foundling got half as much attention—some of them never let him forget it. A hearty portion of the Tribe’s funds had gone toward obtaining the transcription software. He’d been forged a beskar helmet before the others his age, crafted with audio pickups tailored precisely around his range and a transcript interface so comprehensive that nobody could tell. Nobody could tell.

He’d never meant to be ashamed of it: some things were just secrets. That was the Way.

There were no words to tell Cobb all of this: nothing useful in the perfect plosives he’d been so attentively taught by the Armourer, hardly any grammar salvageable from the wreck of his family’s home. He was barely ahead of Cobb in what he could recall well enough to teach, and his throat was wrung tight by that, too. At least the Tuskens held humans in collective contempt, and considered even the clumsiest attempts at signing to be a remarkable effort. It shouldn’t make this easier, but it did.

Cobb spread the legs of the flightsuit across the washboard.

[Must’ve been hard,] he said, looking at Din’s clothes as if they required all of his attention.

When he looked back at Din, it had been long enough that the fist Din had formed could move in answer: _Yes._

Cobb slid the flightsuit lower, and frowned. His fingers slipped into Din’s hip pocket, fishing inside it. He drew out a silver ball.

[You forget this?] he asked.

Din swallowed, and it ached. He had another crick in his neck from the damned cantina bed, and a sword that hung too heavy at his hip, and a hole in his chest that Cobb Vanth had a way of peering so far through he could see the stars on the other side.

He took the ball from Cobb. Their fingers brushed, because he’d been leaving his gloves off. It was cold in his palm, and much heavier than it looked.


	6. The art of angling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my birthday so you get a present

In the unbearable zenith of each day, Mos Pelgo slept. The suns chased people into their cool stone buildings for an hour of quiet. It looked like a ghost town. Din had spent the first week whiling the time away in the cantina—though not his quarters, since the cruelly-placed window rendered it sweltering hot from dawn until late afternoon. The Weequay, like Din, did not partake in the culture of napping. He restocked the cellars and scowled whenever he found Din skulking around the booths.

So Din skulked to Cobb’s porch, instead, where at least he could watch the rippling horizon. Even the windmill seemed to be resting, or at least its lazy creaking was too faint to bother Din. He could take up longer patrols, if there was nothing better to do. Maybe he’d offer when Cobb woke up.

He used to be so good at solitude.

If it weren’t for the weight of that sword, he could have blown away with the wind. He unclipped the darksaber from his belt, turning the hilt over. In the folded shadows of the awning, it looked innocuous. The spear had drawn questions, but without a visible blade, the saber had little to distinguish it from the rest of the gear Din carried. His silhouette was defined by the spear these days, its weight a comforting reminder of the amban rifle. But the saber bounced on his thigh like a loose clip. He ought to get a pocket for it, to keep it hidden. Or, better yet, throw the damned thing in a sarlacc pit.

He took his gloves off, studying the texture of the hilt. At the nudge of a button, the blade slid out. His visor could barely parse the stark blackness. Unsheathing didn’t change the balance of the weapon: the scarce heft was as uncanny as the colour. Little wonder Gideon had been clumsy with it, when it sliced through the air with no resistance at all. Din’s HUD warned him of a _[humming],_ and if he focused, there was a low vibration in his palm. It would snarl and crackle when it met with beskar, but he knew from an enduring scab in his forearm that it cut leather like water.

He bit his lip, gripping the sword. After a brief glance up and down the empty street, he wriggled the helmet off his head.

It was a foolish idea: the suns were painfully bright, and he blinked glaring after-images away as tears welled protectively to his lashes. Scowling at Cobb’s porch until he could make out the pattern of the battered wood, he brought the saber into the shade.

Mos Pelgo slept through his gasp. He’d thought the visor was distorting the image, but no: it was blacker than the depths of space, a yawning abyss that set his teeth on edge with its wrongness. Sparks crept along its edge as if fascinated by the dark within. Din thought of the deep-sea fish on ocean moons, that tricked their prey with glowing lures: this was their inverse, a hole scratched in the world that sucked the gaze with a force stronger than gravity. Was that how people ruled worlds? Did the blade really glow, or was everything around it simply illuminated by the painful contrast?

He turned the flat to one side then the other, and neither gave him any answer.

The wood shifted underneath him, and he swung the sword around. Cobb reeled back, hands raised, eyes round as they followed the tip of the blade.

_Hi?_ he signed, and Din shut the sword off. Both of them blinked at the absence of absence in its wake.

Din reached for his helmet, and Cobb sank to one knee.

_Wait,_ he said. His vocabulary was getting bigger. _I’ll try to sign._

He sat on the porch beside Din, long legs trailing over the edge. Din nodded: he was picking up all kinds of words, now he had the hang of it.

_What is that?_ he asked, pointing at the darksaber.

‘It’s a sword,’ Din murmured.

Cobb raised an eyebrow while Din clipped it back on his belt, but he didn’t push it.

‘It’s trouble,’ Din sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, peeling damp curls from his forehead. ‘And I brought it to your door.’

Cobb straightened, his back aligned with the column he was leaning on, and waited until Din was looking him in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was as crisp as the night wind. Din could follow the words, if he locked his gaze on Cobb’s lips.

‘We’ve had trouble round these parts longer than either of us have been alive,’ he said. He signed _later_ in a way that conveyed there’d be trouble long after, too.

‘But this…’ he pointed to the sword, while his eyes drifted up to meet Din’s. ‘This is about the prettiest trouble I’ve ever seen.’

Din’s lips parted, and Cobb watched it happen. He could see it happen.

_I can say it again,_ Cobb inclined his head toward Din’s helmet. _If you don’t understand?_

Din’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. _I understood._

Cobb’s cheeks were tinged with pink, a different shade from the sun-scoured red he usually wore.

_Pretty,_ Din mouthed the word, fingertips catching on the scruff of his beard.

Cobb echoed with a graceful curl of his knuckles: _Pretty._

_Trouble,_ Din taught him.

_Pretty trouble,_ Cobb smiled.

Din’s shoulders hunched with the heat of it.

_People always say you’re pretty, right?_ Cobb cocked his head.

Din wrinkled his nose. Cobb shrugged the joke off, sliding easily closer. He reached out. There was a hitch of hesitation so brief Din almost missed it, but somehow that was what kept Din steady when Cobb’s fingers caught a stray lock of Din’s hair and tucked it back.

All it took was a tilt of his head. A gesture he made every day: the only common word between his father’s language and the Creed. It had a thousand translations. This one, angled to catch Cobb’s fingers before they could withdraw, to guide their callused tips over his cheek, it meant: _stay._

Din’s lip trembled through a breath, and Cobb’s lashes fluttered in the same pattern. He cupped Din’s cheek like it was spun glass, all that charm stripped away by timid surprise when Din turned and pressed his lips to the swell of Cobb’s palm.

Another voiceless _oh,_ articulated with the collapse of Cobb’s shoulders as he surged forward. Din turned and almost tripped him off the porch, because Cobb’s balance depended entirely on how he clung to Din’s face in both hands, pulling him close. He pressed his forehead to Din’s, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes scrunched shut and scar twisting like he didn’t know what to do next. His breath was shaky and moist on Din’s cheek. For a moment, everything was still: the man and the town and the desert.

The windmill screeched. Cobb startled backward. Din had the helmet back on between heartbeats.

Cobb scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand, cheeks darkening.

[I, uh…] he grimaced at himself. [Well. Would you—d’you care to join me inside?]

He was flustered. Din frowned at the realisation. Flustered, and almost falling over his lanky limbs as he tried to keep facing Din while simultaneously fleeing indoors.

Din sighed, trying to tame the thunder in his chest, and climbed to his feet. Steady, slow, none of Cobb’s stop-start clumsiness. Time to give himself an out, to simply stay on the porch until he drifted over the horizon by nightfall, if he couldn’t do this.

He could do this.

Cobb seemed genuinely shocked, and sincerely delighted, when Din stepped through the door.

‘If we do this…’ Din gestured at his helmet. ‘I won’t be able to…’

[That’s alright,] Cobb nodded. [You can leave it on.]

‘… won’t be able to hear you,’ Din corrected him. Then he scowled. ‘Would you _rather_ I leave it on?’

[No, no, I’d like to…] Cobb’s jaw clenched. [It really is a pretty face, but not when it’s aggrieved by a problem easily fixed.]

He rubbed his knuckles over his beard, thinking.

[Tell me what _you_ want.]

Din hit the catch on the helmet, and closed his eyes. He’d taken it off only moments ago. He’d taken it off in a crowd of Imps, in a room of friends, in a cantina of strangers. Why would this feel like more?

He set the helmet down on Cobb’s bench. He swallowed the knotted fear in his throat, and opened his mouth. Then he closed it again, and raised his hand.

_I want you._

It could be the shadowy room that made Cobb’s pupils so dark. He rolled his lower lip between his teeth, looked Din up and down, and signed back: _I want you._

‘Are you sure?’ Din murmured, his hand hovering near the helmet. ‘If it’s easier…’

_I know ‘yes’;_ _I know ‘no,’_ Cobb signed. _Do I need more?_

A laugh escaped Din, and Cobb used the moment to shift himself closer. Din covered his nervousness by taking his vambraces off, laying them beside the helmet.

Cobb reached up, a feather-light touch propping up Din’s chin until they were eye to eye. It tickled, and Din tried his best not to shiver. Cobb was studying him, eyes bright as they roamed Din’s face. How was he meant to breathe and be looked at, at the same time?

Cobb’s fingers tiptoed up, tracing the line of his mouth. A callused thumb rested at the swell of Din’s lip, pressing until the very tip was wet, then following the arches above. Cobb’s lashes were lowered, a hint of his teeth peeking out as he lost himself in the movement. Din exhaled, slow and stuttering, and touched his tongue to Cobb’s thumb. The way Cobb’s brows drew together at that—

He grabbed Cobb’s face in both hands and kissed it.

Din felt the buzzing of a whine on his lips. Cobb sank in his grip, suddenly knock-kneed and clinging to Din’s shoulders. Din’s back hit the wall, their mouths sliding off to find each other again, fumbled and desperate and forgiving. Cobb’s fists pulled the cowl from his throat, and Din’s pulse kicked against the open air. A long thigh pressed between Din’s. The cuirass was the only thing holding him together.

He’d just got the hang of lips brushing, over-under, the catch and pull of desert-chapped skin, when Cobb’s tongue slipped into his mouth and Din groaned so loudly that it disappeared again, hiding behind Cobb’s grin. Din lured it back out again, flicking his tongue curiously, and all this was more than he could do while staying upright.

Cobb must know, from a guess, if not the way it was undoing Din, that this was new. This wasn’t anything he’d ever attempted, wholly unlike any of the liaisons he’d had with the sort of people who didn’t mind the armour—or found it appealing. He opened his mouth with some hazy intention to say so, and Cobb’s teeth sank into his lower lip, suckling and releasing all too quickly.

Din was pulling his hair, imploring him for another, bumping their noses together with more force than an experienced lover would. Cobb didn’t seem to mind, slithering back so Din had to chase him, fingers snagging under a pauldron to tempt Din towards the bed. He didn’t let go as he guided Din down, but his eyebrows lifted in mischief when Din’s ass hit the soft mattress.

_Yeah, it’s better,_ Din admitted, letting himself be plied into laying down. Cobb draped himself sinuously on top. Din tugged him into another kiss, this one improved significantly by Cobb’s thighs clamping around his hips. He tried holding Cobb’s waist this time, pulling them together and making himself gasp. Cobb’s hips rolled, and he was undeniably hard in those loose pants. Din’s cock stirred with interest, and Cobb placed a set of kisses over Din’s cheek, to his temple, before nuzzling the shell of his ear.

‘Let me undress you?’ he murmured, breath warm, lips brushing Din’s earlobe.

Din huffed out a laugh. ‘You can try.’

Cobb’s eyes narrowed with amusement. He sat up, which only increased the pressure against Din’s crotch, and reached for a buckle at Din’s shoulder. He managed the cuirass and pauldrons without help, but the belt required Din to wriggle for some space—Cobb’s mouth fell open at the movement—and unbuckle it himself. Cobb lay the pieces on the side table, easily in eyeshot. How many times had he done so before, when he’d had armour of his own?

Din’s heart skipped a beat. Cobb was not a Mandalorian—but by the Creed, by now, neither was Din. He loosened the lacing on his vest, propping himself up so that Cobb could peel him out of it. The flightsuit, Cobb already knew his way around. He unfastened it to the waist, his eyes staying with Din’s, waiting for a _no._

Din didn’t say no.

It took some twisting to get Din’s arms free, and once they were, he pulled at Cobb’s shirt. Cobb slunk immediately out of it, sitting up and letting Din admire him. His torso was whiplike, a smattering of hair and scars stretched over prominent ribs. Dark freckles dotted him all the way down to his waist: so many, Din marvelled, before remembering the man was raised under two suns.

He reached out to touch, starting at Cobb’s hipbones. The divots fit his thumbs like they were carved just to be held. Cobb placed his palms over Din’s, guiding him up a waist so narrow Din’s hands almost spanned its girth. Cobb leaned forward so Din could reach higher, the position letting him bear down on Din’s stirring erection. There was a flash of teeth as Cobb used Din’s hands to pinch his own nipples. Din’s thumbnail breezed much gentler over the peaking nubs, and Cobb gave him a narrow-eyed glare for that. Din bounced his hips up, making Cobb gasp and grind down to meet him. Their fingers interlaced, and Cobb brushed his lips over Din’s knuckles. Din squeezed, captivated by the sight.

A heavy breath washed over Din’s hand: Cobb gave him a thoughtful look, his nose tucked between their fingers. He lifted his hips, making Din whine at the absence. With his free hand, Cobb hooked into the hem of the flightsuit, prying it as low as he could without help.

_Yes?_ he asked.

Din nodded, extricating his hand from Cobb’s grasp to wriggle himself out of the suit, kicking away socks and boots with it. Cobb climbed off him, one placating hand still on Din’s waist as he kicked his pants off—it was a process that involved more leg than Din had ever imagined.

Soon Cobb straddled him once more. His lower lip was trapped between his teeth, and he twisted his upper body, reaching back to cup Din’s cock and coax it to full hardness. Din propped himself up on his elbows, captivated by the way Cobb undulated in his lap as he worked, barely breaking eye contact. His cock was flushed red, arcing toward his belly and growing dewy at the tip, despite the lack of attention. Din shifted his weight, reaching out, and Cobb gave a full-body shudder when Din’s fingers curled around him.

Thighs clutched Din’s hips, moving in short thrusts that contrasted the generous stroke Cobb used with Din. It took Din a moment to get the angle right: he discovered the twitch in Cobb’s thighs and the throbbing heat when Din formed a snug grip, thumb sliding over the head before he pumped down the shaft. Cobb bucked into it, his own touch getting clumsy: Din huffed a laugh at this, and Cobb’s head fell back in frustration. He rolled his neck, then brought his hand to his mouth. Din swallowed thickly at the sight of Cobb’s tongue, shovel-wide and languorous, lapping at his palm.

Then he was reaching back to slick Din’s cock, guiding it to thrust into the cleft of his ass. Din’s mouth fell open in surprise, lip quivering and catching Cobb’s gaze. His brows knit together as he fumbled for the question, interrupted repeatedly by the head of his cock brushing across Cobb’s hole.

_No,_ Cobb grinned, freeing his hand momentarily to sign: _Maybe later._

He was back before Din could beg him, and Din would have begged. His hips worked like pistons, shoving in the limited space Cobb gave him. It was tantalisingly close to fucking him, and the way Cobb clenched around him, pushing their bodies together, the nearness of it ached just as much for them both. Cobb’s breathing grew shallow, his whole body tightening as Din continued to touch him. He was determined not to fall behind despite the advantage of Cobb’s position, despite the distraction of sweat beading on Cobb’s chest, the slippery heat of his ass and the enticing texture of work-worn hands.

Din might have been overwhelmed, too, if Cobb hadn’t twitched and curled suddenly, painting him with come, one hand planted on Din’s shoulder to keep himself from pitching over. Din sat up and caught him in a kiss, shuddering at the pressure of holding himself upright as he eased Cobb through the aftershocks, enough to stave off his own orgasm until Cobb was finished. Cobb sank back, eyes glazed, and found an oscillating movement of his hips that had Din whimpering, pushing up into Cobb’s grip.

A smile like dawn broke across Cobb’s face as Din’s cock pulsed and Cobb pulled him over the edge. Din was tensing and clinging to Cobb, dragging him into an embrace. He tried another kiss, wet and loose and probably more tongue than he was supposed to use, but Cobb happily devoured him as Din’s shivers gave way to boneless, satisfied weight. Cobb touched the tip of his nose to Din’s with just enough pressure to give Din a heart attack. Din chased him for more kisses, smaller ones that he could manage the shape of, and surely more than anyone should be allowed.

Finally, Cobb sprawled to one side with a full-bodied sigh, scratching his belly and stretching.

_Good?_ he asked.

_Yes,_ Din smiled, and Cobb stared at the shape of his mouth. The heat in his gaze was stronger than high noon.

Din was contemplating the appeal of the afternoon nap business when Cobb gave him two firm taps on the flank like Din was a wayward dewback. A vague pointing gesture reminded Din that he was filthy, and the desert air would not be merciful with sticky substances.

Cobb dragged him into a sonic shower that was in no way designed for two full-grown men, and managed to get them clean anyway. Din felt the flush rising in his chest as Cobb’s eyes dragged over every inch of him in the shower: the necessity of cleaning up staved off the awkwardness Din had anticipated.

Afterwards, Cobb pottered around without a shirt making caf, while Din took the time to dress himself properly. He had the helmet in his hands, and didn’t realise he’d gone still until Cobb breezed past, leaving a kiss on Din’s cheek along the way.

Cobb was setting two cups at the table when he froze. His brows pinched, and he abandoned the caf to shove his head out the front door to investigate. The laugh was loud and sudden, a rasping bark that startled Din.

Din jammed the helmet back on. Cobb was silhouetted against the desert for a moment before he turned back to beckon at Din.

[Come on out,] Cobb’s smile lit up his eyes. [I think there’s a little someone here to see you.]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for checking this out! I have [other deaf fics here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfreeform_ids%5D%5B%5D=153728&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=robotboy), and [other Mandalorian fics here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=31516237&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=robotboy)


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